


blades, blood, and battle

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Background Implied Unrequited Dimilix, Bad Ending, Black Eagles Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: Sylvain sighs, and his eyes settle on Felix’s, his posture sinking. Rage curls in Felix’s stomach at the sincerity in it, shrewd and false and even more poisonous than when they had been students. His lies flow as smooth as silk. How disgusting. “I wanted to see you, okay?”~~It's the night before the battle at the Tailtean Plains, and Sylvain is at the Black Eagle encampment to see Felix.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 30
Kudos: 55





	1. it's not you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, _please_ heed the tags and warning on this fic. It is very heavy and it ends on a bleak note. The unrequited love is very prevalent in both parts. 
> 
> Part two is written and will likely be posted in a couple days.

Felix’s heart drops out and a flash of anger rips through him. Bernadetta lets out an _eep!_ as his face morphs into a scowl.

What is that bastard doing here?

He can make Sylvain out in the distance behind her, a shadowed figure lingering on the edges of the Imperial Army’s encampment. He’d never mistake that obnoxious red hair anywhere, even if Sylvain _has_ changed the way he arranges it.

He’ll be killed if he’s seen, and while Felix has suspected for a while that Sylvain’s relationship with survival isn’t as simple as Felix’s own, he doubts even Sylvain is ridiculous enough to walk right into enemy lines. He’s lucky Felix hadn’t decided on sight to end his sorry life himself. He hasn’t ruled it out yet either.

Felix bids Bernadetta a good night, waves a hand carelessly as she calls out that he’s being mean, leaving her alone this deep in Kingdom territory. He sets the other on the swords at his hip. Former friend or not, Felix will not let down his guard in front of an enemy general, especially not one as high-ranking as the heir to House Gautier.

Even without mention of the more recent results of Felix’s defection, Sylvain is one of the most powerful men in Faerghus—now second only to his father and the boar himself. Felix scoffs under his breath. The promotion past a defunct House Fraldarius is Sylvain’s prize for Felix’s work.

(He can almost feel Rodrigue’s blood still running over his hands, caustic disappointment in his father’s eyes. Felix had put him down like the mindless puppet he’d chosen to be.)

Felix will send Sylvain on his way or he’ll make tomorrow’s battle easier by relieving the Kingdom of one of its generals. It doesn’t matter much which. 

“Stop skulking about,” Felix says, scorn lacing his tone as he cuts straight for Sylvain.

Sylvain starts, turning to face him. “Felix!” His face breaks into a smile, as meretricious and inane as it’s ever been. There are shadows beneath his eyes to mirror Felix’s own. Despite his careless attitude, the war has left its mark on him. No doubt Dimitri and the others bear their own similar scars.

“What are you doing here?” Felix unseats his sword, showing Sylvain an inch of steel. Not an especially subtle warning, but a clear one even for someone as blockheaded as Sylvain.

“I—I just. That is, I wanted—,” Sylvain stutters over his words, his gaze fixed at a point over Felix’s shoulder. In another world, it might be almost humorous to find Sylvain finally at a loss for words.

“Spit it out.”

Sylvain sighs, and his eyes settle on Felix’s, his posture sinking. Rage curls in Felix’s stomach at the sincerity in it, shrewd and false and even more poisonous than when they had been students. His lies flow as smooth as silk. How disgusting. “I wanted to see you, okay?”

“How quaint,” Felix rolls his eyes. “Have you forgotten that we’re on opposite sides of a war? You’re lucky I haven’t cut you down yet.”

Sylvain takes a step forward, his hand twitching forward. “Yeah, I know. But I had to risk it—I couldn’t stand it if the only time I saw you in years was on the battlefield.”

Felix snorts. “I could.”

Sylvain’s hand drops and he looks away. “Yeah. I’m not the one you want to see anyway, right?”

The image of blonde hair and eyes of piercing blue rises unbidden. Felix shakes it away, and it melts back into Sylvain’s tones of red and brown.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sylvain laughs, humorless. “Never mind.” He peers over Felix’s shoulder at encampment as it readies itself for rest. From where they stand, Felix can hear the murmurs of the night watch patrolling the periphery. “Is there some place we can talk? Just for a bit.”

“Why should I talk to you?”

“You don’t—you don’t have to, not if you really want me to leave. Or,” Sylvain tosses a glance to where Felix’s hand still rests on his sword, “if you’re going to kill me.” He shrugs. “Not that I’d blame you. Enemy general walking straight into the back lines unarmed? It’s practically an invitation.”

Felix narrows his eyes at Sylvain for a long moment. His posture is as guileless as ever, and he’s unarmed. Felix doesn’t doubt that if it came to a fight, he could easily kill Sylvain with his bare hands, and it’s not as though he isn’t well-armed. “Fine.”

Felix leads them to his tent, his steps quick as they skirt the few still awake. Sylvain’s stride is surprisingly light behind Felix and he manages to keep his mouth shut. Maybe he’s finally learned a thing or two about war and about subtlety, though Felix can’t say he has all that much respect for a lesson learned years too late. 

A lamp is lit, the canvas of the tent’s flap drops closed, and Felix rounds on Sylvain, his arms crossed. “Well? What was so important that you had to cut across the Tailtean Plains in the dead of night to talk to me about? Does the boar plan on surrendering?”

There’s a flicker like faith, like hope, that burns in Felix’s chest at the thought, and he curses himself for his weakness.

“Do you really think Dimitri’s going to just surrender? You know him better than that.” Sylvain shrugs. “You know Faerghus better than that.”

Felix offers him a curt nod. Disappointment settles in his stomach, too much like the myriad of other times his homeland failed him and its people. “I do.”

“No,” Sylvain says, stepping closer, his hand rising to hover between them. “I came—I came to ask you to come home. It’s not just from me—everyone’s been worried about you. Ingrid was too, before—” Sylvain clears his throat and shakes his head. His hand brushes against Felix’s cheek and in its cold gauntlet, Felix can almost imagine that it belongs to a different man. “Please, Felix. You always talked about protecting the people and doing what’s right.”

Felix turns his cheek, leaning away from the touch. “Is that what you’re doing? Saving people by throwing their lives down for a war you’re going to lose, for the sake of a church that does no one anything but harm? You have to be aware that the Archbishop is using Faerghus.”

Sylvain lets the hand fall to Felix’s arm. “I know that, yes. You know that. Hell, even Dimitri probably knows that.” His head follows, burying itself into the crook of Felix’s neck, and it’s with monumental effort that Felix doesn’t throw him off. “But this is our home we’re fighting for. We can’t just give it up. Especially not after what happened to Arianrhod.”

Arianrhod. The final resting place of too many and the uneasy burial grounds for ghosts already proving willing to chain their tombstones around Felix’s neck. He hadn’t had time to recover the bodies of his father or Ingrid before the javelins of light fell. All that stood was the rubble of the Silver Maiden, left behind by church in retaliation for the Empire’s defeat of it. 

Or so Edelgard said. Even in his madness, the boar would never let one of Faerghus’s cities fall. The story reeks of secrets and deception, and Felix will one day make her give him the truth. 

“Arianrhod is gone. Continuing to throw down people’s lives won’t change that.” 

Felix can feel the subtle jerk against his shoulder and the brush of hair against his neck. “It won’t,” Sylvain agrees. “But their spirits won’t be at peace unless they’re avenged.”

This time he does jerk Sylvain away, and he lets out a hiss. The words ring with a familiar gravel of vengeance, the same timbre that had torn away the hope that Dimitri still lived under all the beastliness. “Then pay them back by taking down the church. They’re the ones responsible for all the death and destruction.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Do you believe that the church is a blameless and worthy ally?” he shoots back, a hand finding its way into Sylvain’s collar as he glares daggers into the pitiful, vacuous excuses Sylvain calls eyes. 

Sylvain closes them. “We’re talking in circles.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“No, of course not.” Sylvain huffs. Felix pushes down the urge to punch him for the mockery.

Felix drops his hand and turns away. “If there’s nothing else you want, get out.” He pauses. “Try not to die on your way back to the Kingdom camp. It wouldn’t do for you to fall before I got to have one last battle with you.”

Sylvain laughs again, more heartily this time. “Don’t worry. I won’t deprive you of that.” There’s a shuffling sound and then a hand again at Felix’s shoulder. “But there is one more thing, if you’ll indulge me.”

“What.” Felix doesn’t have the patience for this. He should have turned Sylvain away when he had the chance—what an utter waste of his time. He’s sickened by his own fallibility, by his own inability to throw away the sentimentality that keeps him from making this war one battle easier.

“Will you—will you let me have one final hug? To say good-bye?”

Felix clicks his tongue in irritation and he turns on his heel, his hand back on his sword. “What are we, children?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to you coming crying to me like you used to, back in the day, but…” Sylvain trails off, shaking his head. “No, I just—I meant it when I said I miss you.”

Felix eyes him critically. It doesn’t sound like a lie, as prone as Sylvain is to senseless, meaningless words. “Will it get you out of my hair finally?”

“Yeah. Then you can go back to brooding over Dimitri while polishing your sword or whatever it is you do here.”

Felix walks calmly into Sylvain’s space before unlatching the hidden dagger in his sleeve and bringing it to Sylvain’s neck in a single sweep. “I do not brood over the boar.”

“Whatever you say, Felix.” Sylvain’s usual grin is plastered on, at odds with the resigned look clouding his eyes. His eyes don’t so much as flinch at the blade, a resignation buried in them instead. “Does this mean I get my hug?”

Felix tosses the dagger aside. “Fine. One hug.”

A strangled noise finds its way out of Sylvain’s throat and then Felix is being surrounded, broad warmth clutching tight as his shoulders and waist, the edges of Sylvain’s armor digging into Felix’s arms and chest. 

If Felix closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that the armor is black rather than gray, that the man wearing it is crushing him out of careless strength rather than useless desperation. Felix doesn’t close his eyes; he won’t let himself sink into fantasy.

They stand, Sylvain gripping tighter with every passing moment, until Felix feels the space in his lungs disappear as he struggles to breath under Sylvain’s weight. He flexes his wrist, feeling for the other hidden dagger and tests the mobility of his neck. If Sylvain’s goal is to strangle Felix where he stands, he won’t succeed. It won’t be too hard to aim for Sylvain’s neck with either his knife or teeth. 

A muffled rumble echoes against Felix’s neck, the words unintelligible.

“What,” Felix says, irritation lacing his voice. “Are you done?”

Sylvain turns his head and his lips press against Felix’s neck. His arms loosen slightly, and Felix can find air again. “I really wished you were here, Fe.”

Felix snarls. “Don’t call me that.” No one has used that name since before Glenn’s death. He won’t let them start again now.

Sylvain’s eyes find Felix’s, and they glitter in the low light, honeyed and burning. They’re too close, and they pierce into Felix, holding him in place. Felix wants to fling away the lie buried in them, but he can’t see anything but blistering affection. Sylvain really has gotten good at spinning his bullshit in the intervening years, learned how to make it seamless.

Felix bares his teeth and Sylvain’s eyes drop to his mouth, his gaze lingering as he sucks in a harsh breath. Felix’s heart hammers in his chest, loud and traitorous. He knows what comes next, knows what will happen if he doesn’t shove Sylvain away—

Felix waits, breath held, and he lets his eyelids drop shut.

There’s a low growl as Sylvain presses his lips to Felix’s, the crush of his arms returning. The sound morphs into a wounded noise as Felix lets himself kiss back, the intensity of the feeling of Sylvain’s mouth on his trailing electricity down his spine to settle in his gut. Salt drips down Sylvain’s cheek until Felix can taste it on his tongue and his lips curve instinctively into a sneer. 

Sylvain’s lips drift away, pressing a line of kisses down Felix’s cheek and to his throat, his hands wandering as they loosen their grip, intent instead on freeing every inch of Felix’s skin that they can. His shirt comes undone and with it, a gauntlet snakes its way to scrape against Felix’s ribs on its path upward. The hand scratches harshly against Felix’s chest—not harshly enough, its trembling betraying too much hesitance and reverence—and a low moan escapes Felix’s throat.

The lips at Felix’s neck pause at the sound, and his cheeks flame in embarrassment, his body on fire with the humiliation that he’s weak enough to be swayed by the enemy. By _this_ enemy. Teeth attack Felix’s body with renewed fervor, biting at his collarbone, and arms lift him, pulling him upward until he’s barely standing on tiptoe. One hand wanders further, stopping to squeeze Felix’s ass before making its way forward and offering a meaningful brush against the front of Felix’s pants. 

Against his hip, Felix can feel the line of an answering erection, a brand against his skin even through all their layers of clothing. It’s the wrong length, the wrong shape; it wouldn’t fit inside him the way he needs, couldn’t fill the fantasy Felix won’t admit to even in his darkest hours. Felix lets himself suck in a breath, steadying himself as low-burning arousal churns in his veins—he has nothing left to lose. 

Felix knows Sylvain, knows that he’ll never be the strength Felix needs, the raw burn splitting him open and scrambling him from the inside out. The only thing they can give each other is a washed-out facsimile, the mimicry of a desire that burns them like candle flame scorching both ends of a too-short wick. 

“Felix… Can I…?” comes as a choked breath against his ear. Felix grits his teeth at the cadence, blocking out the wrongness of the voice.

“ _Don’t_ talk,” he hisses back, eyes still closed, a hand winding into hair that’s soft and too fluffy. The other grabs a wrist and brings it to the laces of his pants. “This is what you really came for, isn’t it? Get it over with.”

The hand doesn’t pause after that, moving quickly to unlace Felix and take him from his undergarments, having lost its gauntlet at some point when Felix wasn’t paying attention. It strokes against him insistently, and the mouth against Felix’s sucks a line of bruises up to the skin behind his ear. 

It’s too gentle. Too careful. Like Felix will break under anything but the lightest of touches, like he’s made of precious porcelain rather than war and endless, endless dath. Felix growls again, grinding insistently against the hand until it finally gives him what he needs, gripping him more firmly and jerking him off with confidence. The roughness is grounding, even as his mind screams that it’s _wrong wrong not hard enough_ —Felix sucks in a breath and uses his own hand in the other man’s hair to pull the mouth back to meet his, biting viciously against the lower lip, letting the taste of iron flood his mouth.

“Touch me like you mean it,” Felix says, vehement, between kisses. He can feel blood smearing against the other’s cheek, tastes the tang of salt as he presses his own lips against jaw and stubble.

The hand on his cock tightens, the pain of the friction mixing with white-hot pleasure, and Felix feels himself hurtling toward the edge, disgust and lust and anger throttling him as they fight for control. He licks at salty sweat, sucks a bruise into unseen skin, and lets his mind fall blank of everything but the sensation of possessive heat enveloping his cock.

A few more tight strokes and Felix comes with a gasp, voice catching.

“D-dimi—”

Felix bites down, choking the word, and a responding whimper reverberates through the tent.

Only the sound of Felix’s own harsh, ragged breathing breaks the following silence, and after a span of quiet, the hand pulls itself back, tucking Felix into his pants. The arm still wrapped around his waist lets go, and Felix falls onto his heels. He steps back, finally coming back to himself, and he opens his eyes.

Sylvain looks as debauched as Felix feels, blood on his lips and cheeks, and he tongues against the wound Felix left, his hand and hair twin messes of shame. He’s not looking at Felix, his eyes blinking rapidly as he stares at a fixed point on the ground to the left of Felix’s bedroll.

After a moment, Sylvain rights himself, and he’s back with a smirk. “Well, that was fun.”

Felix looks at him stonily, his gaze flickering to where Sylvain is obviously hard in his pants. “You didn’t even come.”

The smile drops for a moment, but Sylvain shrugs, waving a hand. “I can take care of myself later. You don’t want me to stick around for that, right?”

“You’re right. Get out,” Felix says, turning away. He can’t stand to look at Sylvain for another moment. “You’re not so stupid that you can’t find your way out of the camp.”

There’s a clank and a shuffle as Sylvain complies, stopping to pick up his gauntlets from where he’d discarded them, but a quiet beat reigns as he hovers by the entrance. 

“Felix…” Sylvain's voice is soft, sweet. It’s filled with false regret, and Felix’s gut roils in disgust. “I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

A heavy rustle of canvas announces his exit, and then the tent is silent. 

Felix sinks onto his bedroll, stripping his remaining clothes away, and closes his eyes. Behind his eyelids, the image of earnest blue flickers to spritely brown. He bites down on his tongue, fists clenched at his sides, and he wills himself to sleep.

It is hours before the usual nightmares take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm on twitter [@euphemeas](https://twitter.com/euphemeas). If you're one of the few people who loves angst as much as I do, please considering giving this fic a retweet [here](https://twitter.com/euphemeas/status/1282391964319715329).


	2. third place is last place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain drips down the side of Sylvain’s face, wet and slick. It feels more like blood than the red coating his hands.
> 
> “You’ve never looked at me,” he says, voice barely a whisper as he stares at Felix. He can’t be sure Felix hears him over the thunder—if he does, he shows no signs. Felix’s gaze remains fixed on the horizon, to the north where Dimitri waits. He hadn’t looked at Sylvain the previous night either, not really. “You’re not looking at me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And *points one more time at tags and warning* please take care.

Third place.

Third place. Or is it second place, now that Glenn’s dead? Second place, maybe, if he’s usurped that role, taken that intangible medal.

(Felix won’t admit to having ever respected them, let alone playing favorites, but if there’s anything Sylvain is good at, it’s recognizing lies to yourself. It takes one to know one, and Felix’s words reek of hypocrisy, whatever he might say about the dead being dead. Felix’s love, Felix’s favoritism—it spans back to when he was little more than a bundle of blankets, kissed and caressed, adored by a mother, a father, a brother.

All of them wanted him. All of them loved him. Never spurned, always cherished, even when he can’t fucking see it. They never asked him to be more than who he is.

Sylvain’s never been good at handling his jealousy.)

First place is still there: tired, heavy shoulders bearing the weight of a nation, the shadows under the king’s eyes sinking darker and darker as more bad news comes home to roost.

Felix will stomp his foot and flash his blade, but his eyes have never failed to look first for Dimitri. Sylvain can’t remember when he started searching for starlight only to get copper coals in return.

He’s clung to third place.

Or—and this is probably the sad truth he’s been denying—is Sylvain any place?

People change and sentiment is cheap. Maybe he’d had a place, back in childhood, back before Glenn’s sky crashed down around them and dragged Dimitri to hell, taking Felix with him. But not anymore.

Felix has forgotten everyone else in his quest to dig Dimitri out from his bones, to unearth the best friend he wants so desperately to still believe he has. No matter what his mouth says.

So many years have passed since. Felix abandoned them (abandoned even the first place winner he refuses to acknowledge by name) five, cold years ago. Six, if you count from the moment he decided the Black Eagles were better worth his allegiance because of some flashy swordplay.

Felix’s heart iced over at fifteen, and Sylvain knew when he stopped answering his letters. He knew it in every time Felix brushed him aside, in every meal when he’d announced he’d rather train. Sylvain knew it in how Felix’s eyes were never his to meet.

Maybe Sylvain’s always been lying to himself, telling himself that he’s ever meant anything to Felix. Their promise—Felix was seven, he didn’t know what the words meant, he couldn’t have had any way of understanding what Sylvain was asking of him. He’d just agreed, tears streaming down his cheeks, wailing that he didn’t want Sylvain to die. Ingrid had been there too, Sylvain thinks, but he honestly can’t remember; he’d only had eyes for Felix.

To be wanted, without his Crest—the dream that Sylvain had never been worthy of.

(The other dream: if Sylvain couldn’t be a good little brother, then he could at least be a decent older one. Even though the other three had never needed him to be. And even though they’d stopped looking up to him by the time he was fourteen, their eyes instead turning to disdain and disgust. He can’t say he’s ever blamed them.)

Sylvain will take whatever acknowledgement he can get, cling to whatever scraps of affection he can find, hold onto the memories of the person who’d once trusted him (even if it was only after Glenn and Dimitri had been too busy to listen).

He’ll be a replacement if he has to. He’ll be a warm body. He’ll be whatever Felix needs, whatever face Felix imagines over his.

He’ll let Felix use him, because he’s using him too—there was never a doubt that he’s using his best friend to prove that he’s capable of love, no matter how diseased and twisted.

And that, really, is probably the biggest joke of all. As if he knows love.

Third place. He’ll take third place, if he can get it. It’s not like he’s earned it either way.

He sets the Lance down and quietly makes for the edge of camp. It’s his last chance to do right by Felix. The Imperial Army will be here tomorrow.

* * *

Rain drips down the side of Sylvain’s face, wet and slick. It feels more like blood than the red coating his hands.

“You’ve never looked at me,” he says, voice barely a whisper as he stares at Felix. He can’t be sure Felix hears him over the thunder—if he does, he shows no signs. Felix’s gaze remains fixed on the horizon, to the north where Dimitri waits. He hadn’t looked at Sylvain the previous night either, not really. “You’re not looking at me now.”

Felix’s eyes flash to him, cold and narrowed, alighting only for a moment before honing again on their true target.

“What do you want me to say, Sylvain? You made the wrong choice.” He scoffs, mirthless. “And now you’re going to die for it.”

Sylvain raises the Lance of Ruin. “Yeah, guess I am.” He adjusts his hold on his shield, his wrist flexing as he brings the heavy steel closer to his chest. “But I’m not going to go down without a fight.”

Felix’s eyes return. He raises an eyebrow, his expression drowned in doubt. It’s probably laughable to him to think that Sylvain could ever pose a challenge.

Sylvain looks stonily back, his face schooled to hide the sinking in his stomach. He can’t stand the impassive hate in Felix’s eyes—he’ll wipe it away, he’ll make him see reason, he’ll bring Felix home, by force if he has to. Felix isn’t the only one who’s changed over the years; the war has scorched and reforged him into more than the boy Felix once knew.

Felix bares his teeth, his blade rising with an eerie glint, and the resignation in Sylvain’s chest settles.

Felix takes the first strike, just like when they were students training side by side with the rest of the Blue Lions. It’s almost nostalgic. Felix never was one for patience, and the intervening years and the Imperial Army haven’t changed that about him. Expose the enemy’s weakest point, aim for it, without mercy—Felix has always loudly subscribed to the idea that the only good defense is an overwhelming offense.

Felix’s sword jabs at the gap in the neck plates of Sylvain’s warhorse, sharp and lethal. They both know that if he can take out the horse, he’ll incapacitate Sylvain’s longer range. Sylvain pulls himself out of the path of the slash, his horse following effortlessly, and he sweeps the Lance in a wide arc to force Felix back.

The mud squelches below their feet as they regain their footing, the roar of the storm still heavy around them. The Professor and Edelgard are somewhere out there, their weapons shining beacons leaving blazing trails of devastation.

This fight is nothing like the spars he and Felix once had.

It’s Sylvain who dives forward this time, the Lance pointed at Felix’s shoulder—if he can force Felix to lose his swords, he can end this fight. It’s a big if: Sylvain never managed to surpass Felix in skill back at the academy, no matter how willing he was to make up for it with recklessness and tricks. The gap in their abilities had only grown after Felix had decided to dedicate himself to Byleth’s tutelage.

Felix dodges effortlessly, a derisive laugh dropping from his lips. “Is that all you’ve got Sylvain? I expected better, even from you.”

Sylvain charges again, the Lance burning a bright path through the night, his path truer this time. He can’t afford to take Felix lightly—Felix has never treated him as anything but a serious opponent, even when he hadn’t been worthy of it. The Lance of Ruin lands with a heavy crack against the Aegis Shield.

Felix staggers under the impact, letting out a grunt, and he whirls away.

“There’s more where that came from,” Sylvain says, careless. He rounds again on Felix. “Don’t go taking me lightly now.”

Felix’s lips stretch into a sneer. “I wouldn’t if you were an opponent worthy of my blades.”

Sylvain has never been that. He wonders if that’s part of why Felix has always looked past Sylvain, to the one he was born for, to the one he’d never been able to beat—not in strength, not in his heart.

Felix charges again, his aim wilder than before. Sylvain sidesteps. Felix is losing patience. Back at the academy, Sylvain would have immediately lunged for his gaps in his defense, determined to end their bout before Felix’s superior stamina could tire him out.

Another jab. A parry.

The Lance of Ruin shines through the night, its call answered by the Aegis Shield. A grotesque extension of Sylvain’s hand, the metal plate on his other a boulder to bury him.

Sylvain’s shoulders sag. “Do we have to do this, Felix?”

When the war had started and Felix hadn’t come home, the rotten turning in his gut had told him it would one day come to this. The fight was inevitable; Felix has never known how to quit, how to turn back. Sylvain just never thought his role would be as an inconsequential roadblock, almost faceless, not even an impediment.

Felix hunts only his king.

“I’m doing what’s right, it’s you who should stop. You know this.” Sylvain doesn’t, but they’d had this talk the night before, and he knows it’s too late to change any minds. Felix’s eyes flicker north, remorse dropping over it, but only for a moment. “I suppose there’s no surrender for your army, given how Faerghus is. The Emperor and the Professor have clemency to give, but none of you will take it.”

“You’re right. We can’t surrender. We won’t. I’ve been a coward in the past—I’ve thought too much about whether this war is worth staying for. But I’m protecting my home now, and I don’t regret fighting for it.” Sylvain watches Felix, sees the way his eyes dart between Sylvain and where he knows Dimitri to be, and he lets out a shudder. “Can you say the same?”

“I cut my own path—I have no need of a home that will throw its men and women down to die.”

Felix dashes forward, his blade keen as it arcs toward Sylvain.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sylvain mutters to himself. Felix isn’t listening anyway. “The only way to settle anything is a fight to the death, isn’t it?”

It’s how it always goes in Faerghus, no matter how far away you get, no matter where your allegiances lie.

To live is to battle and to battle is to die.

Sylvain parries Felix’s sword away again half-heartedly, his lance and shield suddenly unbearably heavy. As quick as the lightning Sylvain knows he wields, Felix changes tacts. Sylvain’s horse bucks beneath him, a whinny and a snort piercing the air, and he slides in his saddle as she tries to dodge the oncoming assault.

“Whoa! Whoa, girl, calm down!” He manages to squeeze his thighs, a vain attempt to reassure the mare that Sylvain is still here, still able to guide her and keep them both safe. Her front legs drop back to the earth, skittish, but no longer in danger of throwing him.

From below, Sylvain can hear the disdain in the click of Felix’s tongue.

A beat passes as Sylvain regains his bearings, his eyes searching the ground for Felix, and all at once there’s a grotesque splatter of blood over the din of battle. The horse buckles below Sylvain, and he drops to the ground.

The world spins and crushing pain radiates from his left leg. Sylvain’s armor sits heavy on his shoulders, slightly askew from its normal wear, and it digs in uncomfortably at his waist and neck. He’s not sure if he still feels his leg, and he cannot move it, trapped as he is. The fallen mare stills in her thrashing, her panicked, gurgled neighs bleed out, silenced by the gash in her throat.

The sky above slows to a bright point. Sylvain remembers to breathe.

“So weak. So worthless. How like you,” Felix says, standing over him. Resigned disappointment bleeds over his expression, and he raises his sword, both hands poised on the grip.

Sylvain tries to laugh, but it comes out a choked cough instead. “Hey, Felix? Remember when we were kids and we made a promise about dying together?”

Felix’s hands still, but his expression remains cold. “I remember.” His eyes are unreadable, empty and glassy as they reflect the Lance of Ruin.

Their childhood promise—a light of hope that Felix would return, if not to live together, if not to fight together, then at least to die by the other’s side. Sylvain has had little else to look forward to in these five years.

“Well, seems we're about to kill each other.” Sylvain lifts the Lance skyward, a bare tribute to one last stand. Felix remains unfazed. With another aborted laugh, Sylvain lets his arm fall back, and the Lance clatters uselessly to the ground beside him.

Felix’s gaze softens for a moment, frozen copper wavering toward warmth. He lets out a breath and redoubles his grip on his sword. “Sorry, Sylvain. You'll die first.”

“So what are you waiting for?” Rivulets run down Sylvain’s face, pooling with the bitterness stinging the corner of his eyes. He blinks against the endless storm still thundering around them. “Let's finish this today.”

Felix looks north again, and his eyes stay there this time. His sword is steady as he readies it, pointed above Sylvain’s heart.

He’s not looking at Sylvain even as he kills him. Not that he’s ever really looked at Sylvain—not when they were kids and he trailed after Glenn with stars in his eyes, and not later, when all he had were harsh words for Dimitri and the inability to look away.

After the tragedy, Felix stopped letting himself look back. Throw out all of Faerghus rather than grieve his brother. Give up on Dimitri no matter how it betrays his heart. Discard the past, the present, until all that’s left is a future he can’t name.

Sylvain is a knight of Faerghus, the heir to the soon-to-be-former Margravate—Sylvain can’t say he doesn’t deserve to be thrown away with everything else Felix could never stand about their home. There always had been something rotten at his core, and he’d never learned how to carve it out.

Felix’s eyes are watchful as they look for Areadbhar’s light.

It hurts that Sylvain’s part to play is so small he’s not worth the final goodbye. Sylvain knows he shouldn’t blame him.

Sylvain closes his eyes, letting out a sigh.

He doesn’t gasp when he feels steel pierce his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the dialogue is taken from the canon Tailtean interaction, including the final line discovered in the [datamine](https://fedatamine.com/en-us/battles/36/combat-at-tailtean-plains#event-battle-44).
> 
> I'm still on twitter [@euphemeas](https://twitter.com/euphemeas), come yell at me about ways to make my faves sad.


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